Death's Angel: A Novel of the Lost Angels by Heather Killough-Walden Read Free Book Online

his hiding place and landed on the black rock of Cruden Bay’s cliffs with unnaturally perfect grace. He turned to face the dark waves of the North Sea, pondered his destination, and blurred into vampire motion.
    Within seconds, he reached the doorway of an ancient kirk.
    Shortly after their arrival on Earth thousands of years ago, Azrael and his brothers had been blessed with the use of a massive and very magical mansion. That mansion existed in so many dimensions and so many times, it defied all logic and physical law. It also imbued the archangels with the magical ability to open a portal through any doorway in the world—then through said mansion—and out the other side again, so long as there was a door to exit through at their destination.
    Using this magic now, Azrael opened a portal through the old church’s doorway and stepped through. By the time he closed the swirling vortex behind him, he was in California’s Bay City. There, he again blurred into motion and took to the skies.
    He could feel the heartbeat of San Francisco beneath him as he soared above its glimmering skyline. It was the pulsing culmination of a kaleidoscope of emotions. Several people he passed over were crying. More were laughing. A few were fighting. Firetruck sirens called out in the night while waves crashed onto a shore and slowly receded again. Sailboat rigging clinked rhythmically against boat masts, sea lions barked, and gulls cried to one another through the fog. Squealing brakes on cable cars synchronized with warning bells, and San Francisco weekenders gathered in squares and coffee shops to make the most of what remained of their time off.
    Azrael knew exactly where he was going.
    It was a fault of human reasoning that people automatically assumed those who were older would prefer older things. While this was often the case, there were exceptions. Age sometimes had little bearing on the novelty of a mind. And a novel mind thoroughly enjoyed new experiences and unexpected sights, sounds, or feelings.
    Fisherman’s Wharf had been around for hundreds of years in one form or another. Fishermen had sailed out and thrown their nets from the wharves for as long as there had been settlers on the West Coast. Immigrants from China and Italy had each at one time called it home. San Francisco was the gateway to those seeking fortunes during the gold rush, and Angel Island in the bay was the Ellis Island of the West, having seen countless of the hungry, tired, and hopeful.
    Pier 39 had not always been what it was today. It had been moved, destroyed, built up again, burned down, and restored. In 1978 one man decided to do what had previously been thought impossible: create a breakwater pier where families could go to shop, dine, and relax. He fought for the legislation and funding to make it possible—and against all odds, Pier 39 was completed in just one year.
    Azrael was not a young man and he most certainly wasn’t a tourist, but because Pier 39 had bucked the system and proven naysayers wrong, it was Azrael’s favorite place in San Francisco. It was also quite lovely at night. It was quiet in a hollow, echo-like way. It was there that he headed now.
    The Pier became overcrowded on the weekends, but at ten o’clock on Sunday evening, six hours earlier than it had been in Scotland, the weekend revelers were beginning to put the finishing touches on their short escapes from reality. Street performers were packing up, musicians were putting away their instruments and counting their change, and the beggars were gathering on the sidewalks to share or exchange the day’s winnings.
    As the stragglers drifted away, restaurants shut off their lights and wharf maintenance crews broke out the brooms and dust pails. Garbage and recycling bins clanked as they were emptied. Azrael’s boots echoed loudly on the wooden planks of the pier as he landed in a shadowed recess behind a shop that had string puppets dangling in its window.
    Pier 39 was